Soul Magic
by Incarnadine
Summary: AU after OotP. Harry Potter is the Chosen One, destined to defeat Voldemort. That's what everyone believes. But Harry knows, and Dumbledore knows, that he can't do it alone. Harry's sixth year begins with new alliances and the promise of new power and knowledge - but as the year goes on and Voldemort grows more powerful, it becomes very clear that it's likely to end in blood...
1. Friend of the Order

**Disclaimer:** I don't own Harry Potter and writing this story isn't making me any money. Would that it were.

**Author's Notes:** This is an _alternate universe_ version of Harry's sixth year. It starts off as a fairly close parallel of _Half-Blood Prince_, but the timelines diverge more later on, and some events either happen differently or don't happen at all. Some canon concepts from the last two books appear virtually unchanged, but others have been repurposed or removed entirely. Most of the new things introduced in _Deathly Hallows_ have been completely ignored.

This story bears a slight cosmetic and conceptual resemblance to my 2005 story A Slytherin's Spell – which, incidentally, I do not recommend reading.

**Warnings:** This story will contain non-graphic slash (boys kissing other boys), original characters and character death – though as I'm not G.R.R. Martin, this should stay at a reasonable level. If any of those things bother you, this is probably not the story for you.

_For my mother, who listens whenever I ramble on about my writing._

* * *

**Soul Magic**

"_To claim power over what you do not understand is not wise, nor is the end of it likely to be good."  
_Ursula K. LeGuin

* * *

**Chapter One  
****Friend of the Order**

It had been the worst summer of Harry Potter's life. Considering how some of the previous summers had gone, that was saying quite a lot.

If it had just been the nightmares, he might have been able to take it. He'd had nightmares for years; he'd seen Quirrell disintegrating, Ginny lying motionless and pale, Dementors swooping down to take his soul. And – until this summer the worst of all – he'd been forced to watch as Cedric was cut down by acid green light, again and again, until he screamed from the horror of it. So yes, he was no stranger to nightmares, though it still wrenched at his heart every time he closed his eyes to see Sirius blasted through the veil, and woke with the knowledge that the dream had been real. That his godfather was really gone.

It wasn't even the guilt that wore him down the most, although he _did _feel guilty. He had been in the wrong, and he knew it; the nightmares wouldn't let him forget. Like Cedric, Sirius would never have been where he was if not for Harry. How could he _not_ blame himself at least a little? And yet… he wasn't a fool. He knew where the guilt truly lay. Bellatrix Lestrange was responsible for Sirius's death – and Voldemort was responsible for making her what she was. And that was the real root of Harry's distress; he wanted revenge, _and_ he wanted to make sure Voldemort could never hurt anyone ever again – but there was nothing he could do. He wasn't of age. He couldn't even do magic outside of school, not legally. All he could do was hide at home and wait, and it was driving him mad.

Though, if Harry was honest with himself, this forced inaction was probably a _good_ thing. The truth was that, even as he wanted Voldemort dead, he was afraid of the not-quite-man. He'd never really known before what it would mean for the terrible Dark wizard to be back. Oh, he'd _thought_ he did. After all, he'd faced the monster before – in the flesh, even – and somehow managed to survive. He'd thought he understood what he was dealing with. But he'd been wrong. Very wrong. At all of their previous meetings, Voldemort had been a shadow of his true self; now, returned to the height of his power, he was more than a match for Harry. How _could_ a boy fight against such a creature and win?

To make matters worse, he had the _Daily Prophet_ to remind him on a regular basis of his 'destiny' and his role in the battles to come. The newspaper had apparently forgotten all about its attempts to convince the world that Harry was delusional and possibly dangerous, and was now hailing him as the 'Chosen One', the only one who could defeat Voldemort. It seemed appropriate that the one time he would rather the _Prophet_ was wrong, it should come so close to the truth. Appropriate, but still annoying; really, after everything he'd been through because of that rag, he wasn't even sure why he still bothered to read it. He knew that he needed to stay informed, and the paper _was_ at least reporting on Voldemort's activities now – but between the reminders of the Prophecy and the news of attacks he could do nothing to prevent, he'd almost rather have stayed in the dark.

Not that there was any way he could've managed that; even the Muggles were beginning to notice that something was wrong. His aunt and uncle had left him alone so far this summer, had even let him watch the television in the kitchen – and every time he saw the news it was full of odd occurrences. The reporters didn't have any idea what was really going on, but the string of apparently unrelated accidents, added to the unseasonal weather, was making people uneasy. Which wasn't really that surprising to anyone who knew the truth – that the fog spreading across the country was caused by the Dementors under Voldemort's control, drawing the peace of mind from everyone they touched. Knowing that, Harry could only be relieved that so few Muggles had been found suffering from the effects of the Kiss.

He sighed and went back to his packing. At long last they were coming for him. Dumbledore himself would be here to take him away, though the letter hadn't said where they'd be going. Harry worried a little about that; since his safety was apparently very important – because of that damned Prophecy – he assumed that the only other place he would be allowed to stay would be Order Headquarters. Which... if they were still using the house at Grimmauld Place, he didn't really want to go near it. He didn't trust himself not to murder the house elf for one thing. Harry scowled to himself. If he _did_ have to go there again, he would, but Privet Drive seemed almost pleasant by comparison.

Still, Dumbledore was coming! He was keeping his word; he'd said he would never distance himself from Harry again, and it seemed that he'd meant that. Rather than send Order members, he was coming in person, which might mean that he had something important to explain, or special orders to give. Harry wasn't excited, exactly, but he was looking forward to his first proper conversation with Dumbledore since they'd spoken in his office after the battle at the Ministry. Even if he would have to apologise to the headmaster for everything he'd broken then.

Whatever he'd said when he'd first heard about the Prophecy, whatever Dumbledore might believe, Harry didn't really blame him. Now he'd had time to think about it, he understood why the truth had been hidden from him, much as he disliked being lied to. He could barely cope with the responsibility now, at sixteen – what would have happened if he'd been told about his great and terrible destiny at the age of eleven, at the same time as he found out that he was a wizard? He wouldn't have been able to handle that. And even the year before, he might not have had the strength to deal with the knowledge, not after the harrowing events of the Triwizard Tournament. Even if he _had_ always known, on some level, that in the end it would come down to him and Voldemort – because, really, who else could it be? – to have it confirmed had shaken him near to collapse.

He heard a knock at the door downstairs, and a smile drifted across his face briefly. It might have been the worst summer of his life so far, but it wasn't too late for things to get better.

* * *

Dumbledore still hadn't told him exactly where they were going, saying only that there was going to be an Order meeting, and that there was someone he particularly wanted Harry to meet. When they arrived, he realised that this wasn't the old headquarters, but somewhere very different – this was somebody's home, a house loved by the people who lived in it. Nobody had ever loved Grimmauld Place, and not even the smell of Molly Weasley's cooking had ever made that old mausoleum (wasn't that what Sirius had called it?) feel like home. Perhaps the Order had a new Headquarters – or was this the house of the person Dumbledore had mentioned earlier?

Harry looked around the room. It was dimly lit and full of expensive-looking antique furniture. Several portraits of well dressed wizards slumbered on the walls, and there was even something that looked like a family tree tapestry – which he regarded with suspicion, because wasn't it only Dark pure-bloods who cared about that sort of thing? There wasn't anything _else_ about the room that made him uneasy, though; there was a cabinet full of well-polished silverware and old magical artefacts, but nothing there looked as though it was intended to do harm. A far cry from Grimmauld Place, where even the snuff-boxes wanted to bite people. Harry supposed that there could be something like that in the collection, but it didn't seem likely. While it was obvious that the room belonged to someone rich, and probably a pure-blood, he didn't feel uncomfortable here; either the people who lived in this house weren't Dark, or they'd removed any sign of their allegiances.

"Whose house is this?" he asked, turning to Dumbledore, who was watching him with undisguised amusement.

It wasn't Dumbledore who answered him. "Mine." Harry jumped half out of his skin and cursed his own inattention. How had he managed to miss the fact that there was someone else in the room with them? He looked around to see a young man stepping out of the shadow of a large oak bookcase – a deep shadow, yes, but Harry still felt foolish. Moody would've scolded him for being taken by surprise like that. He shot a half-hearted glare at the boy, who didn't look much older than Harry was – maybe seventeen or so – though he was several inches taller, and his dark collar-length hair obeyed him in a way that Harry's never had. There was an easy self-assurance to his movements – or, at least, there was until his eyes fell on Dumbledore and he stopped dead, obviously confused.

"Ah, good evening, Mr. Fletcher." The headmaster smiled pleasantly, as though there was nothing strange about the boy's demeanour, or the fact that he'd been _hiding behind a bookcase_. Harry, for his part, realised why that name sounded familiar to him, and was stunned. Fletcher? A relative of _Mundungus_ Fletcher? With such an obviously expensive house?

"Professor." The young man had recovered his composure, and looked slightly embarrassed to have lost it at all. "I didn't expect to see you here. When Cousin Mundungus approached me about this, I have to confess that I assumed his _organisation_ would be decidedly more criminal in nature. I wouldn't have helped him at all, you understand, but I thought that it was what Father would have wanted." His voice was pleasant, soft and light with a hint of some North Country accent, but Harry recognised the way he spoke even without the usual bored aristocratic drawl. This was a member of one of the old pureblood families – perhaps not Dark, but still unlikely to be any sort of friend to the Order.

"Perhaps it will soon _be _a criminal organisation," Dumbledore said, mildly. "I hope not – but things do have a habit of not turning out quite the way we would like them." Fletcher gave a small, rather ironic smile in response. "Have you met Harry Potter?" the headmaster asked, suddenly, as though he had only just remembered that Harry was there.

"I don't believe we've ever been introduced." The young man took a long look at Harry, as though assessing him for something. His expression was guarded but friendly, and he didn't seem overawed at being in the presence of the 'Chosen One' – which suited Harry just fine. After a moment, Fletcher offered him a hand. "Miles Fletcher," he said, calmly. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

Harry took the hand and shook it, unsure of what to say. Fletcher already knew his name, after all. Everyone did. "Uh... you too," he stammered, and was relieved when the other boy didn't sneer at his awkwardness – evidently he wasn't _too_ much like Malfoy, whatever the house and its furnishings might suggest about his social class. "Sorry, but Mundungus is your _cousin?"_ He couldn't help asking, with something like disbelief in his voice; there was no real similarity between the two, and it was impossible to imagine this dignified young man dressing in grubby rags or receiving stolen goods.

Fletcher seemed to know what he was thinking, and laughed. "He's my second cousin, actually – but he and my father were almost the same age and went to school together. They were close, back then, and they saw a lot of each other – before Mundungus went off the rails for good." He sighed. "I don't know if you know this, but he doesn't _have _to steal. It's just that there's something not quite right about him. I don't think he can help it. There used to be one like Dung in every good family; a black sheep that no one could do anything to help, and no one really liked to talk about. Of course, he _is_ a disgrace to the family name, but I think Father was fond of him, in his way."

Curiosity prompted Harry to ask: "_Was_ fond of him?"

At that, Fletcher froze, and his face emptied of what little expression it had held before. "My father died two months ago," he said, stiffly.

Harry felt awful; he knew exactly how he'd have reacted if someone had asked him questions about Sirius, or tried to pry into his loss. "Oh. I'm sorry." And he was, really; he didn't like to upset people he'd only just met. He realised that he was going to have to be more careful with what he said – this had been a bad summer for everyone, and there were probably a lot of people who had lost someone recently.

Fletcher looked at him again, this time in a way that made Harry feel slightly uncomfortable. Eventually, he said, softly, "Thank you." Then, in a brighter tone, he addressed Dumbledore again: "If it suits you, sir, I had Emmett make up the upstairs drawing-room for your use." He grinned, suddenly, and Harry was amazed to see that it didn't really _look_ forced at all. "I should probably mention that we went through the room earlier today and removed everything valuable that we could actually carry away. As I said, I was expecting Dung and his dubious associates, not Albus Dumbledore and Harry Potter."

The headmaster chuckled. "That will be quite all right, Mr. Fletcher," he replied. "Whatever you provide will be more than good enough. I only hope that we can sort out the confusion over our headquarters before too we lose too much time." Harry shot him a questioning look, but Dumbledore did not seem to notice. Instead, in a kindly tone, he added: "Would you like to sit in on our meeting this evening? I believe that our goals and yours are similar." And Harry, realising what that offer meant, was surprised, confused and a little annoyed. Who _was_ this boy, that Dumbledore was so prepared to trust him?

As far as he could tell, Fletcher was puzzled, too. "I'm not sure that would be wise," he said. "You don't know that I wouldn't betray your confidences."

"I think it very unlikely." Dumbledore smiled at the young man. "Besides, I am already placing a considerable amount of trust in you – as are the rest of the Order, in accepting your hospitality."

"You must know, sir, that there is a difference between my being able to report that there was a meeting of your organisation here, and being able to report every single word that was spoken." Harry wondered exactly why Fletcher was trying to convince the headmaster that he might not be trustworthy. Was it a test? A trap? Or something else? "Well, I suppose you do have a reason to think that I would never report to He Who Must Not Be Named." There was a grim look about the other boy's face as he said that. "I could always betray you to the Ministry, though – if that's something that worries you."

"Would you do that?" Dumbledore sounded merely interested, as though it were an academic question rather than anything of practical importance.

Fletcher gave a tight-lipped smile, and his pale blue eyes showed a flicker of amusement. "No, I wouldn't," he said. "I apologise for being difficult, sir, but I would hardly consider joining a secret society that showed no sign of considering the possibility of spies in its midst." He tilted his head slightly, as though thinking, and then added: "Well, in any case, I will have to decline for tonight. Mother and I are going out for dinner – I thought it better to leave the house while Dung's friends were here, you see. I shouldn't like to let her down." The smile broadened. "I have to say, sir, that many would call you brave for trusting me, given my House." He gave a sharp laugh. "Both of them."

"Brave, Mr. Fletcher? Or foolish?" Dumbledore's eyes seemed to dance.

"Oh, both, I'm sure." Fletcher shook his head, and turned towards the door out of the room, pausing to say, "I nearly forgot – call for Emmett if you need anything while we're gone. There should be a service bell around here somewhere."

"Your house elf?" Harry was curious; it seemed strange to ring a bell for an elf.

"Oh, no; Emmett is – was – my father's valet." He frowned. "Well, I suppose I should think of him as _my_ valet, now. He's practically a member of the family, though. We don't have any house elves here – not since my great-grandfather's time – and I won't be in the house, or else I would help you myself." After a pause, he went on, "At any rate, I will consider your offer. Perhaps I will see you both at the next club meeting, assuming the rest of the members agree with my joining." Dumbledore only inclined his head, and Fletcher took the hint and opened the door. "It was nice to meet you, Harry."

Harry wasn't entirely sure what the etiquette was in this situation, but he did know how to be polite. "And you, uh, Miles." The other boy flashed him a brilliant smile before he left the room. Harry didn't quite know if Fletcher was just being nice or trying to charm him. Or – well, from the way Dumbledore's eyes were twinkling he could tell that the headmaster at least thought that it was a sign of friendship.

"So... was that who you wanted me to meet?" he asked, a little confused as to what all of this was _about_.

"Indeed." For a moment, Harry thought that Dumbledore wasn't going to say any more than that, but then he explained. "I have had young Mr. Fletcher in mind for the Order for some time. His father had a seat on the Wizengamot for many years, and always impressed me as an honest and reliable man. I believe that Miles takes after him, as you do your own father." Harry, remembering the contents of Snape's pensieve, was not as happy about that as he might once have been. "I thought it would be as well for you to meet him, given that I have chosen him as Head Boy for the coming year." There was – still! – something that Dumbledore wasn't telling him about this, Harry could tell that much.

"You want me to work with him or something? Fletcher – Miles, I mean?"

Dumbledore smiled. "I think there will come a time when you may be glad of having allies – or even friends – in other Houses. I have the impression that young Miles likes you, and will help you if you ever need to ask." He seemed to notice the way Harry was looking at him, because he added: "Yes, I am not telling you everything right now – but I promise that I _will_ tell you, and soon. It will be easier for me to explain certain things to you in my office, for there is much that I must show you. For example, tonight I will _show_ you an Order meeting."

"Wait, I'm invited?" Harry was a little surprised. But then, Dumbledore had asked Fletcher to the meeting right in front of him, which might have been a little cruel if the headmaster had not also been intending to ask him. "I thought... I mean, I'm not of age, sir."

"That is true – but perhaps it is not a very intelligent reason to exclude you from our conferences," Dumbledore replied, calmly. "Given your position in this war, and what you know already, I think that the wisest course of action would be for you to join the Order so that you can be present for our meetings and discussions. Due to your age, naturally you will not be allowed to participate in any missions involving use of magic." Gravely, he added: "I did promise to keep you informed, Harry – and I intend to keep that promise."

Harry felt almost disappointed, although he knew that was ridiculous; just being in the meetings was more than he would have hoped for only the day before. "Then – thank you, sir."

"Do not thank me, Harry." Dumbledore's eyes had never looked sadder – and all of a sudden, Harry was struck by the realisation that the headmaster was an old man. He'd never really thought about him that way before. "I am an old fool, to make a warrior out of a child – but it is necessary that you learn as much as possible before I am no longer here to teach you." The words echoed his thoughts, and Harry wished that he could object and claim the idea was ridiculous – but he couldn't do that, because it just _wasn't_.

What he said was: "I'll pay attention, sir." He thought for a moment, then decided to test Dumbledore's resolution to keep no more secrets. "What was it you meant earlier, when you said there was confusion over the Order headquarters?"

"Ah, yes. I had a feeling that you might ask me about that." Dumbledore paused for so long that Harry started to think that he wasn't going to get an answer at all – but then he said: "You are aware, of course, that the house in Grimmauld Place was the property of Sirius?" Harry, not trusting himself to speak, just gave a short nod. "Well, since Sirius has passed on, and his last Will was made some seventeen years ago, leaving everything to your father – there is some uncertainty as to the ownership of the house. It is likely that it will revert to the Black family, but since Sirius had been disowned, it is difficult to say. Until the situation is resolved, we are without a safe headquarters."

"Oh." Harry thought about this for a moment or two, until he was sure he understood exactly what Dumbledore had said. "That sounds... complicated." He sighed, and then remembered another thing that had puzzled him about the earlier conversation. "Sir – what did Fletcher mean when he said that you were brave to trust him because of his House?"

Dumbledore smiled indulgently. "Both of his Houses. The first is his family; the Fletcher family have a long tradition of pursuing political careers, and his father had a fine legal mind as well." Harry laughed a little at that – it would seem that wizards didn't really trust lawyers or politicians any more than Muggles did. "Secondly – I am sure Mr. Fletcher is aware of the reputation of his House at Hogwarts."

"You mean that he's a Slytherin, don't you?" Harry wasn't surprised, not really.

"Exactly right, Harry." Dumbledore seemed to be watching him for a reaction. "Will that be a problem for you?"

"Should it be?" Harry asked – and then snorted at himself. It seemed that he'd already picked up some of the headmaster's conversational tricks.

"The reputation of Slytherin House is not entirely undeserved." Dumbledore spoke slowly and seriously. "But there will always be some among their number who are worthy of trust. For what my opinion is worth, Harry, I would say that Mr. Fletcher may not always be strictly honest with you – but when it is truly important, you should be able to rely on him." Of course, Dumbledore trusted _Snape_, and Snape was surely one of the nastiest people Harry had ever met – though he could not in all honesty claim that the man had ever betrayed that trust. Even so, he was pretty relieved that Fletcher had seemed nothing at all like Snape.

Still, though, he wondered exactly why Dumbledore had wanted him to meet the other boy. Was it simply a matter of getting to know a potential Order member – or was he being prepared for something else, something that Dumbledore couldn't tell him about yet? He shook his head. Either way, asking more questions probably wouldn't help, so he just said, "I'll keep that in mind, sir." Then another thought struck him, and he felt terrible that he hadn't thought of it before. "What about Ron and Hermione? I mean – will they be allowed to join the Order, too? Can I tell them all the things that you're going to tell me? I – it wouldn't feel right to hide things from them."

If anything, Dumbledore looked pleased. "I had been going to suggest that you confide in them," he said. "For your own sake, if nothing else. It is important not to shut oneself away from one's closest friends." He paused for a moment, seemingly absorbed in thought. "I imagine that, were you to attend Order meetings without them, you would nevertheless tell Mr. Weasley and Miss Granger everything that you had seen and heard."

"Probably," Harry replied, knowing that the honest answer was 'Yes'.

Dumbledore seemed to know that as well, because he smiled and said, "Well, then – there would seem to be little point in excluding them." After a brief silence, the headmaster turned away and moved towards the door. "Come, Harry, let us go and see the room that Mr. Fletcher has prepared for us. I will send word to Molly and Arthur to bring your friends along with them."

* * *

Harry hadn't realised quite how much he'd missed Ron and Hermione until he saw them again. They tumbled out of the fireplace in the drawing-room and immediately sought him out - Hermione hugged him and tried to ask about his results and tell him about her own all at the same time, while Ron clapped him on the back and tried to get a word in edgeways. Eventually, Hermione had to pause to draw breath, and Ron took advantage of this to say: "Mate, how the hell did you manage it? Mum was _livid_, of course, kept saying we were far too young and what was Dumbledore _thinking_, honestly…" He stopped imitating his mother's voice and grinned at Harry, who grinned back.

"I just told Dumbledore that if he didn't invite you to the meetings, I'd tell you both everything anyway," he said, modestly.

Ron laughed. "Bloody brilliant." Then his face changed, his expression becoming more serious. "You been alright, Harry? After - you know -"

Harry did know. "Yeah. Well, mostly. I miss Sirius; I keep wondering when he's going to send me an owl, and then remembering he won't ever do that again." He took a deep breath and blinked slowly a couple of times. When he trusted himself not to cry, he continued, "But… well, Sirius wouldn't want me to be miserable all the time, or shut myself away, so I'm just trying to do normal things. I even did a bit of holiday reading," he said, looking at Hermione, who smiled at him. Ron, by contrast, looked slightly horrified at the idea of doing anything beyond the required work over the summer. "How about you? Are you alright? Those brains…"

"Oh, yeah, I'm fine," Ron said, cheerfully. "Well, I am now. Might end up with some cool scars, though - that'll be something to tell stories about." He looked around at the room they were standing in for the first time. "So whose house is this we're in, then?" he asked, curiously. "It's not the old place."

"No, it's not," Harry replied, thinking how glad he was that it wasn't. "It belongs to someone called Fletcher." This drew a faint snort out of Hermione, so he added, "Not Mundungus, though he did say they were related. I hardly believed it, though; they don't look or talk anything alike."

"Families are _weird_," Ron said, nodding sagely.

"_Mundungus_ is weird," Hermione said, in a disapproving tone. Then she smiled. "That explains the name of the house, actually. I mean, a Fletcher _would_ live at Arrowhead Hall." She spoke as though she were pointing out the obvious, but it was apparent that neither Harry nor Ron understood what was so amusing about it. Sounding irritated and a little defensive, she explained: "A fletcher was someone who made arrows, a long time ago. So it's an appropriate name."

Harry snickered. "Yeah, I suppose it is," he said, which seemed to placate Hermione somewhat. "I didn't know what the house was called, though. I didn't Floo here; I Apparated with Dumbledore. Side-Along, of course, since I don't have a licence yet or anything."

"That's something they'll definitely teach us this year," Hermione said, confidently. "I'm looking forward to it; the theory is interesting, _and_ it's really useful, too."

Ron nudged her, and teased, "You just never want to have to get on a broom again."

She rolled her eyes. "Well, perhaps that too," she admitted. Turning back to Harry, she said, "You never did say what you got on the OWLs, Harry! Obviously I know what _Ron_ got because I was there when the letter came from the Ministry - and like I said earlier I got eleven OWLs and only one wasn't an O-"

"I swear, she was actually _disappointed_ about that," Ron interrupted, chuckling. Hermione glared at him, but her heart didn't really seem to be in it.

"Don't be stupid, Ron, of course I wasn't," she retorted. "Before I got the results, I was terrified I'd have failed everything!" That was Hermione's greatest fear, Harry remembered. He wasn't sure if she was scared of failing _exams_, or just failure in general.

He laughed. "Really, Hermione, what are the chances of that ever happening?" he asked, lightly. Then: "I passed seven, failed Divination - big surprise - and History of Magic, and I got an O in Defence Against the Dark Arts, so I suppose fighting Voldemort paid off in a way." Ron snorted, and Hermione looked torn between amusement and disapproval at the joke. "The only bad part is that I got an E in Potions, so there's no way Snape will let me take the NEWT class. Which means I won't be able to become an Auror after all." He sighed. "And there's no good asking Snape to make an exception for me; he already thinks I want special treatment, the bastard."

"Harry! You can't talk about a Professor like that!" Hermione sounded appalled.

"It's okay," Ron said. "It's only _Snape_." He and Harry laughed, and even Hermione unbent enough to give a grudging half-smile. "Anyway, that's too bad, mate. Maybe you could play Quidditch instead, though - you're brilliant, any team would want you." Harry had a feeling that Ron's thoughts were on his favourite team, the Chudley Cannons, and their usually dismal performance in the league. Personally, he doubted that any Seeker, however good, would make the Cannons a great team, but he knew better than to say that to Ron.

"I suppose we'll see what happens," Harry said, suddenly wondering if making plans for the future, for a time when Voldemort would presumably have been defeated, would be tempting fate. That was something he had realised in the Department of Mysteries, and dwelled on for weeks afterwards - there was no guarantee he would survive. He couldn't forget that, not entirely, and it haunted him. Mostly he tried not to think about it. Dumbledore had told him to confide in his friends, but he didn't think he would talk about this part, at least. What good would it do?

Hermione looked very much as if she wanted to say something, but she was prevented from doing so by Dumbledore tapping a silver fork against a crystal glass, making a soft ringing sound that somehow filled the room. All talking stopped immediately, and as the headmaster cleared his throat and started to speak, Harry sank into a nearby chair. Ron and Hermione did the same, their own conversation forgotten amidst the curiosity and excitement. Harry looked around at the rest of the people in the room, all of whom were listening intently, and felt his heart beat slightly faster than normal with the anticipation. His first ever meeting with the Order of the Phoenix was about to begin.


	2. Professors and Prophecies

**Author's Notes:** This story has _five_ major viewpoint characters, and for the most part each new chapter represents a change in narrator. While this will enable me to relate events without requiring that Harry be there to see them, rest assured that I don't intend to write him (or Ron and Hermione) out of the story. Hopefully the next few chapters should prove that I mean that.

(If you're interested in the progress of my other story _Sword of Slytherin_, I'm still bouncing ideas for Chapter 7 around in my head.)

* * *

**Chapter Two  
****Professors and Prophecies**

The evening after the Order meeting, Professor Dumbledore had turned up at the Burrow, claiming he had a problem that only Harry could help him solve. Harry had immediately agreed to go, of course - with a smile on his face, even - and Hermione had to admit that the headmaster was very good at getting people to do what he wanted. Harry liked to feel that he was important because of what he could do, rather than because of who he was, so a request couched in those terms was far more likely to be successful. _She_ knew that very well herself; it was how she'd got him to agree to teach the DA the previous year, after all.

And so they prepared for yet another evening without Harry, though it felt different this time, somehow. While they'd been apart for most of the summer, it was annoying to have their friend taken away from them on his first real night under the same roof - before they'd even had a chance to spend any time together, just the three of them. To make matters worse, earlier that day Harry had said that he had some important information to share with them, just as soon as they could be alone and away from any potential interruption - and then Professor Dumbledore had arrived, and Harry had gone with him to who-knew-where, leaving Ron and Hermione behind in suspense. Although, really, she wasn't sure how much it bothered Ron; he didn't have the same desire for knowledge as she had.

"Sure you don't want to play chess?" Ron asked, with an eager grin, as he went to fetch a deck of Exploding Snap cards.

Hermione snorted. "Quite sure, thanks." She'd always pretended that she didn't like the violence of wizard's chess, but it was more that she knew she just wasn't very good at it. And losing to _Ron_ at a game that required skill and intelligence was not something she was willing to invite, not on a regular basis. He didn't gloat _that_ much when he beat her - as he usually did - but it was still more than her pride could take. She wasn't really sure _why_ she was such a bad chess player. It wasn't that she couldn't strategise and think ahead - she had already drawn up colour coded study plans for the year - but something about the game always seemed to confound her. Maybe she ought to learn. There had to be a way she could read a book about chess strategy without Ron noticing. Perhaps if she put it inside her Arithmancy textbook?

"Ready to go?" Ron finished shuffling the cards and ran his finger down the edge of the deck, which made crackling noises.

"I'm ready." Hermione met his eyes and smiled. "Are _you _ready to lose your eyebrows?"

Ron laughed. "You're a vicious snap player, Hermione." He began to deal out the rather scorched cards into two piles, one in front of each of them.

"I'm just competitive," she said, lightly. She hated to lose, even at something as silly as Exploding Snap, but at least with that she could tell herself that it was mostly down to luck. Ron didn't care nearly as much about winning, either. It was just for fun, not anything that could ruin a friendship.

"I'm more competitive," he shot back, and she wondered if he knew how ridiculous that sounded. Rather than say anything, she just shook her head and turned over the first card from her stack. Ron smirked and did the same, and then the game was on in earnest.

Ten bouts of Exploding Snap, several minor burns and about a gallon of tea later, they called a truce and Ron sneaked downstairs to purloin a plateful of fresh-baked cookies while no one was looking. He and Hermione were just starting in on these - she had chastised him over the theft, of course, but it was hard to disapprove too much when the cookies were so delicious - when someone knocked on the bedroom door. Ron panicked and threw a discarded robe over the plate, but when the door opened it turned out to be Harry, who looked amused by the furtive look on his best friend's face. The robe was removed from the cookie plate, and all three of them set about eating the evidence.

After several minutes of near-silent chewing, Hermione's curiosity got the better of her, and she asked, "So, what did Professor Dumbledore want you to do for him?"

Harry grimaced. "Oh, he just wanted me to meet an old friend of his, and persuade him to take a job teaching at Hogwarts. It's funny; he wouldn't let himself be impressed by _famous_ Harry Potter, but then he remembered my mum, who was one of his favourite students. He told me stories about her, and how brilliant she was. She sounded kind of like you, Hermione." He smiled at her, and she flushed; while she _knew_ that she was brilliant, compliments always flustered her a little. "After that, we were practically friends, and he agreed to teach - which I think is what Dumbledore was counting on."

"A new professor?" Ron sounded intrigued, but not surprised - after all, it was practically tradition now that they would have a new Defence professor every year, and it wasn't as if Umbridge could come back. Not after what Hermione had done to her. "What was he like?"

"He was strange," Harry said, thoughtfully. "Really paranoid, but not like Moody is; he tried to hide from us, and he didn't _want_ to come out of retirement when we first got there. He sounded scared of openly siding with Dumbledore, like he was afraid of what would happen. I'm not sure I liked him very much. From what he said, it sounds like he used to have a special club of favourite students, and treated them differently to all the others - because he thought they'd be able to do things for him or make him look good in the future." He paused for breath, and then added: "I guess he was a bit creepy, but he was nice to me, and he's one of Dumbledore's old friends, so he must be okay. Well, okay for a Slytherin."

Ron reacted exactly as Hermione thought he would. "A Slytherin? Great." He added a rude word that Mrs. Weasley would have been very upset about if she'd been there.

"He wasn't _that_ bad," Harry said, shrugging. "A bit slimy, but too afraid of Voldemort to be a Dark wizard, I think. And he was fond of my mother, who was Muggle-born, so I don't think he'd ever be, you know, a _Death Eater_ or anything." Then he frowned, looking slightly puzzled. "I'm not sure someone that cowardly would make a very good Defence professor, though."

Hermione took the last cookie from the plate, ignoring Ron's wounded expression. "I don't know if that Ministry decree is still active," she mused. "If it is, Professor Dumbledore might have preferred the idea of employing this friend of his than letting the Ministry choose another teacher." She pulled a face, remembering Umbridge. "Not to mention, since he has to hire a new professor, that'd be a great opportunity for a Death Eater spy to get into Hogwarts. Better to get someone he's known for years to take the job, even if he might not be the best person for it. The way things are at the moment, it's better to surround yourself with people you can trust."

"Dumbledore trusts _Snape_," Harry pointed out, glowering. Hermione was about to respond to that, but then thought better of it and closed her mouth on the words she'd been going to say. Really, there was nothing she _could _say that she hadn't already said a hundred times. Harry was determined to hate Professor Snape, to believe that he had somehow deceived the headmaster and was really working for Voldemort. Logic didn't come into it. "But this guy, Slughorn, he seemed to be all right, really. Dumbledore warned me that he'd try to "collect" me, but he didn't seem worried about it." He paused for a short time, thinking. "Hm. That's two not awful Slytherins I've met in two days."

"Oh?" Hermione was puzzled; she couldn't think who the first might have been.

Harry frowned. "Yeah, that Fletcher boy, the one who owns the house where the Order meeting was held last night - he's a Slytherin. I asked Dumbledore about it and he gave me a speech about how some of them are bad but there are good ones too, or something. Maybe he was trying to get me used to the idea before I met Slughorn."

"I can't believe the guy's name is _Slughorn_," Ron said, suddenly, with a snigger. Then he laughed outright and burst out with: "Oh, and you said he was _slimy_ - that's a good one."

Hermione scowled at him. "Ron, he's a _teacher_. You shouldn't be disrespectful about Professor Slughorn." Secretly, she had to admit that the name was rather amusing, and fitted Harry's description of the man very well - but that didn't matter. She had her principles. Teachers deserved respect. Still, she could see that the boys were unimpressed by her admonition - as she'd known they would be - so she decided to change the subject. "Anyway, you said you had something important to tell us, Harry?"

"Oh, right, yeah." Harry looked nervous, but tried to cover it up by pouring himself a cup of tea. "Well, the thing is… it's about the prophecy."

"You mean the glass ball thing from the Department of Mysteries?" Hermione sat up a little straighter. "I thought that got broken in all the confusion..." She stopped talking abruptly and wondered if the reminder of Sirius' fate would be unwelcome to Harry - although there was no way they could talk about the prophecy ball _without_ at least mentioning that battle.

"Yeah, it was smashed to bits," Harry said, with a wry smile. "But the thing is, it wasn't the only copy. Dumbledore heard the original prophecy when it was first made, you see, and he shared the memory of it with me." He took a deep breath, as though steeling himself for something unpleasant. "And… well, the important part is that it says that I'm the one who has to defeat Voldemort. Since he 'marked me as his equal' -" here Harry gestured to the lightning-bolt scar on his forehead - "just as it says in the prophecy, I'll have the power to defeat him. I'm not sure _how_, or what the power is, but Dumbledore says he's going to teach me what I need to know."

"Oh…" For once, Hermione was rather at a loss for words. While it was undeniably true that Harry had a habit of ending up face to face with Voldemort and his agents, to find out that there was a deeper meaning behind it, that it wasn't all bad luck - that came as a shock to her. Hermione didn't believe in fate or prophecies, and saw Divination as a branch of magic that was more fraud than genuine. She wasn't afraid of the prophecy itself; she knew it held no power on its own. No, the danger was that people would believe in it - and the idea of anyone expecting her best friend to save the world was frankly unsettling. "Well, I'm glad Professor Dumbledore is going to give you lessons," she said, after a moment. "He knows so much; I'm sure he knows what this _power_ is and how you can use it."

Ron picked up a discarded newspaper and waved it at Harry. "So, all that stuff in the _Prophet_ about you being the Chosen One…?"

Harry laughed, a little ruefully. "Is true, yes, in a way. I'm not sure I like the title, though." He shrugged. "At least it's a change from 'the Boy Who Lived'. I always hated that one."

"Better than them calling you crazy, like last year," Ron pointed out.

"Well, yeah, I suppose it is." Harry sighed and added, almost wistfully, "It would be nice if I could be something _other_ than a madman or the chosen hero. Thanks to the _Prophet_ articles, everyone is going to be staring at me. Again."

"I wouldn't worry too much," Hermione said. "Wait and see how other people react to you, first. I mean, does anyone actually expect the _Daily Prophet_ to tell the truth anymore?" Harry gave a faint snort of amusement, and she felt pleased that she'd managed to be at least a little funny. Then he looked up at her and she saw his eyes - and suddenly everything was very serious again. She put her hand on his arm and asked, gently, "So, how do you feel about all of this, really? Are you scared?"

He took a while to answer, but it seemed more like he was considering the question than trying to avoid answering it. "Yeah, a bit," he said, quietly. "But I'm not really surprised. It always seemed like it was going to come down to this, didn't it? Me and him. That's what it's always been." He sighed. "I can't pretend anymore, that's the only thing." Hermione squeezed his arm, offering what comfort she could, knowing that for all her intelligence and all the books she had read, she could have no idea exactly how Harry felt, or what to do about it. There were no right words, so she didn't say anything.

Ron said, "As long as you don't think it's just going to be you and no one else." He spoke somewhat awkwardly but seemed completely sincere; although he had never really handled emotions well, he knew as well as Hermione did that this was important. "We'll be here for you. Any problem you have, Hermione can research a way out, right?" He flashed her a cheeky grin, and she responded in kind. "And I dunno how much good I'm going to be, but I'm here anyway. You can't get rid of me."

"Why would I want to?" Harry gave him a lopsided smile. "You two are my best mates, of course you get dragged along with me. I think Dumbledore _wants_ you to help me - he as good as said so." Hermione felt a twinge of pride at this, although she knew that logically the headmaster would want Harry to have people to confide in. Perhaps that was what would make the difference between winning and losing, when the time came to face Voldemort. As far as she could work out, _he_ didn't trust anybody. Having true allies - was that a _power_ that could help Harry win? Or was she reading too much into things again, and hoping for a bigger role than she ought to?

"Of course we'll help you," she said, calmly. "You're _our_ best friend." She noticed that Harry seemed rather overcome by all this, and added: "Really, Harry, you can't have imagined we'd react any other way? You should know by now that when you get into trouble, we'll be right there with you." Her lips twitched slightly. "However many rules we end up breaking." It didn't really hurt her to say that anymore; she found it rather hard to understand why she'd ever cared more about obeying school rules than doing the right thing.

Ron laughed. "Okay, I need to get that one in writing," he half-choked. "You heard, Harry - _Hermione_ said she didn't care about breaking rules!"

Hermione rolled her eyes. "Really, Ron. You know what I mean. Breaking rules is still wrong, it's just not as bad as - well, as letting Harry down." She met her friend's green eyes and they exchanged a smile, full of warmth and understanding. It was alright; at least Harry understood what she meant, and he seemed to be touched by the show of support. Despite the heartwarming connection, she felt obliged to add: "Don't forget, though, we'll need to study too! It's the first year of NEWTs and I've heard that the lessons are _much_ harder than anything we've ever had before, and we'll have to work hard so we don't fail anything. And we might learn useful magic in classes; we'll need to know more than just whatever Professor Dumbledore is going to teach Harry, I'm sure."

"Oh, Hermione." Harry seemed to be trying rather valiantly not to laugh at her. "I missed you."

For once in her life, Hermione was quite speechless.

* * *

A few days later, they went to Diagon Alley to buy school supplies for the year. As anyone might have guessed, Hermione needed to buy a lot of books; she intended to take six courses, rather than the more usual four or five, and she knew Professor McGonagall would probably let her. The boys, for their part, had grown over the summer - they were several inches taller than they had been, and had all the clumsiness of baby animals not yet used to their long spindly limbs - and they were sure to need several new sets of robes. So, yes, the shopping trip was definitely necessary, but given the danger of a world with Voldemort at large, it was organised rather more like a military campaign, or at least what Hermione imagined a military campaign to be like.

Everyone was on alert, and two of the Aurors affiliated with the Order were accompanying them unobtrusively as bodyguards. One of these was Tonks, for once with a hair colour found in nature, and dressed rather more conservatively than was her usual habit. It was strange to see the loud, vivid Auror so subdued, and the ever-present reminder of the need to be careful and remain undercover was almost chilling to Hermione. The thought that they couldn't even go to London to buy school books without a battle-ready escort frightened her somewhat… but this was the reality of Harry's life, and if she wanted to be a part of it, she would need to accept that.

They went first to the robe shop, Madam Malkin's, on the grounds that books were far heavier than robes and would be better picked up as close to the end of the day as possible. Hermione, who had been hoping for a chance to browse the bookshelves at her leisure, was disappointed but not surprised. Her boys no more understood her passion for reading and knowledge than she did theirs for Quidditch. On both sides, it was tolerated as an amusing though occasionally annoying quirk, and they got on well despite her attempts to get them to study, and theirs to get her to join in with friendly games. She did wish that it were possible to go to Flourish & Blott's earlier in the day, though.

The shop was very busy, and several people were already being fitted for robes, so Harry and Ron settled down on a couple of rickety chairs to wait for one of the assistants to be available. Hermione, who didn't need any new school robes, started to flick through a rack of cloaks. Her old winter cloak had begun to look rather shabby, and though she didn't care about fashions or prettiness in the same way as the other girls in her dorm, she _did_ prefer her clothes to be neat and in good repair.

She was just holding out two cloaks, comparing the cut and feel of the material, when the door to the shop opened, setting the bell jangling. This wouldn't have drawn Hermione's attention at all, if Harry hadn't called out, "Hey, Fletcher!"

She turned in time to see a pair of boys stop and look at Harry. The shorter of the two said, "Why, fancy meeting you here, Potter." He had a warm tenor voice that somehow managed to sound polite and refined despite an obvious Yorkshire accent. Curious about who he was and how Harry knew him, Hermione abandoned both cloaks and headed back to her friends. As she got there, the strange boy was just saying, "I hadn't expected to see you again until the next club meeting."

Harry looked surprised. "Oh, you did decide to join, then?"

"Well, naturally," the boy - Fletcher - replied. "If such a distinguished person asks one to join a club, it is only sensible to accept." He gave Harry a deliberately significant look, and then smirked. Gesturing to the very tall, dark-skinned boy beside him, he said, "You've met Blaise Zabini, I assume?"

"We've had classes together for five years," Harry replied. That was true enough, though Hermione couldn't remember a time when any of them had actually _spoken_ to the boy. Still, Zabini was a Slytherin, so it was probably for the best; Slytherins and Gryffindors normally only spoke in order to goad one another into saying or doing something stupid. _Not on speaking terms_ was about as cordial as relations between the two houses ever got - usually. Perhaps that was going to change. "Oh, I should introduce you to my friends - Ron Weasley, Hermione Granger. This is Miles Fletcher. You've seen his house."

Hermione looked up at Fletcher and smiled. It was quite a long way up; he might be shorter than Zabini, but he was still much taller than she was, probably around six feet. He was fairly good-looking, she supposed - dark hair, sharp intelligent eyes, good bone structure - but not really her type at all. "Nice to meet you," she said, politely, noting with pleasure that he offered her his hand to shake, just as he would have done with another boy.

"Likewise." His answering smile was subdued, but seemed genuine enough, as far as she could tell. He shook hands with Ron and then sat in the chair on the other side of Harry, leaving Zabini to stand alone, looking slightly awkward. It was probably hard enough just to _be _that tall in a room full of people, even without your friend suddenly starting to talk to people you'd been avoiding for several years. She almost felt sorry for him. "Blaise, don't hover," Fletcher said, suddenly, patting the chair next to him.

"I don't _hover_," Zabini replied, sounding slightly affronted. "I _loom_." He snorted and then threw himself down on the indicated chair. "It's not as though I can help it, really. My grandmother took one look at me when we got to her villa and demanded to know if Mother had been feeding me illegal growth potions. And that was probably the friendliest interaction they had the whole time we were there."

"Sounds like you had a great summer," Harry remarked. Apparently he was going to make an effort to be friendly with these boys, even if they _were_ Slytherins. But then, Hermione supposed she should've realised that the moment he'd hailed Fletcher. Getting a Slytherin's attention by any method other than insults or violence wasn't exactly normal behaviour for Harry.

Zabini scowled. "Oh, it was wonderful," he said, with heavy sarcasm. Then a rather guilty look crept across his face and he muttered, "But, well, I can't really complain." He glanced over at Fletcher, and then stared at the ground.

"You can complain as much as you want, Blaise," Fletcher said, in a surprisingly gentle voice. "It's not like my misfortune…" His words trailed off right after the shop door opened and closed; Hermione turned to see Draco Malfoy, who had just come in, looking around at all the people gathered there with obvious disdain. She sighed. Even if some members of his house _did_ prove to be civil or even friendly, she strongly doubted that Malfoy would ever be anything more than a petty bully to them. He certainly wasn't going to make any overtures of friendship, and it was unlikely that Harry or Ron would ever think of it either. Fletcher shook his head vigorously. "Sorry, I seem to have lost my train of thought."

"Of course you have," Zabini said, taking his eyes off the floor for long enough to glower at Malfoy, who took absolutely no notice of him. "Honestly, Miles," he snapped. "Stop that. It's undignified."

Fletcher smiled amiably and said, "I really don't know what you mean, Blaise. You're the one staring at him; he might get the wrong idea." Zabini looked like he might want to reply, but settled for looking away and grinding his teeth. "Did any of you have a more enjoyable summer than Blaise, by the way? It was remiss of me not to ask before." His eyes did seem to slide towards Malfoy more often than was strictly warranted, Hermione noticed, and wondered what could be behind that.

"I think Zabini and I will have to compare terrible relatives sometime," Harry said, brightly. "But, well, apart from the club meeting, I've really just been spending time with Ron and Hermione - apart from the time Dumbledore dragged me out to meet a friend of his, someone called Slughorn." Ron sniggered; Hermione rolled her eyes at him.

"Oh, Slughorn." Fletcher seemed to recognise the name. "He taught my parents when they were at school. My grandparents, too; he was a teacher at Hogwarts for over fifty years, or so I've heard. I don't believe either of my parents were favourites of his, though. I suppose that if you've met him, you'll have figured out that he plays favourites?" He looked at Harry inquiringly, and Harry nodded. "He was always very obvious about it, you know; never even tried to be subtle. Hardly an appropriate choice for the Head of Slytherin, I wouldn't have thought. But, as I say, my parents were never included in his club. After all, their families weren't all that influential, and neither of them were any good at Potions."

Hermione frowned. "Potions? Why would that matter, unless…" She thought quickly and realised what Fletcher had just told her. "Hold on, do you mean that Professor Slughorn was the _Potions_ teacher?"

"Well, yes, he taught Potions when he was at Hogwarts before," Fletcher said. "I suppose he might not be teaching it _now_, but it would be rather strange if he wasn't." His brow furrowed and his eyes rested almost absently on Malfoy, who had used his best spoiled child attitude and the inattention of the rest of the queue to get one of the assistants to help him first. After a moment, Fletcher went on: "It's possible, of course, that something has happened to Professor Snape, in which case Slughorn would teach Potions and there would be another new teacher for Defence."

Harry looked almost regretful as he said, "No, Snape is fine. We saw him at the Or- I mean, the _club _meeting last week, and there wasn't anything wrong with him then."

Zabini's lip curled slightly. "No need to sound _quite_ so thrilled about it, Potter."

"Oh, come on, Zabini, you must know Snape despises me just for existing," Harry protested. "I swear, at the start of every year he's disappointed because I managed to survive the summer."

"That's hardly an uncommon feeling in our House," Zabini said, dryly. Seeing Harry's expression, he hurriedly added, "I mean, among the idiots who dream of serving the Dark Lord. Not _me_, obviously. My family doesn't really care much one way or the other, and I wouldn't get any personal pleasure from your death, even if you _are _a Gryffindor. Besides, according to the _Daily Prophet_ the world is doomed if you manage to get yourself killed, so I suppose I should be at least slightly biased in favour of your continued existence."

Before she could stop herself, Hermione said, "How very _gracious_ of you, Zabini."

The boy's head jerked up, and he looked at her with wide-eyed surprise. She knew she hadn't managed to suppress the sharpness in her tone, though she doubted he'd understand why she was annoyed with him. _"I don't care one way or the other"_ might sound like a neutral statement to a pure-blood - which she assumed Zabini was - but to a Muggle-born like Hermione, what it meant was _"I don't really mind if Voldemort and his followers slaughter you and everyone like you."_ There wasn't a neutral option, not in a war like this. How could there be? Standing by and allowing evil to happen was supporting it, in a way. Not being a foul-mouthed bigot didn't make Zabini a good guy; it made him just barely better than Malfoy.

"I - it was only a joke," he stammered. Hermione sighed. Of course he didn't get the point. He didn't realise why he'd offended her; he clearly thought she'd snapped at him because he'd made light of Harry's death. Although she supposed it was a point in Zabini's favour that it at least seemed to bother him that he'd said something to upset her. If he bought into the idea of pureblood supremacy, he wouldn't have to _care_ what she thought; a Muggle-born's disapproval would mean nothing to him. So perhaps the very fact of his discomfort suggested that he might not be that bad after all.

"It's alright," she said, after a moment. "_I'm_ sorry; I shouldn't have been rude about it." She wondered if she really ought to apologise - but then, Zabini had no idea that he'd said anything wrong. That was nothing more than an excuse, though. The truth was, she didn't want to make a scene or drive away these Slytherin boys, not if Harry was determined to make friends with them, and it was better to smooth things down than start an argument. Hermione wished that she were better at talking to people; she was afraid that she drove them away without meaning to - or rather, she knew that she did, but wasn't sure exactly what she was doing wrong.

"You weren't rude, don't worry-" Zabini was interrupted by Malfoy suddenly deciding to make a scene, ostensibly because the assistant serving him had stabbed him with a pin. Remembering his habit of exaggerating minor injuries for effect, Hermione wondered exactly what Malfoy was trying to get out of this performance. Apparently thinking along the same lines, Zabini muttered, "Well, _he's_ not doing himself any favours." Then he nudged Fletcher. "The girl had just touched his left arm when he kicked off, did you see that?" A significant look passed between the two. "You _know_ what that means."

Fletcher grimaced. "It _could_ be, but not necessarily. Don't jump to conclusions, Blaise." But his face was grim as he watched Malfoy declare that he would suffer no more 'insults' to his person and storm out of the shop in an impressively bad mood. Then, in a deceptively casual tone, he asked Zabini, "Didn't your father ask you to pick up some of his orders from those shops down near Knockturn? Since you can't possibly need any _more_ new robes, maybe you should get started on that now. It would be terrible for you to miss out on something important by not going early enough."

"I see what you mean." Zabini gave a very devious smile, rose and headed towards the door. He called back: "If you go to the tea shop once you've paid for your robes, I'll meet you there when I'm done." With that, he slipped through the door and was gone.

Hermione cast a sidelong look at Fletcher, and asked, "How on earth is Zabini going to follow Malfoy without drawing attention to himself? He's very… noticeable, you know." She noticed the matching looks of surprise on Harry's and Ron's faces, and realised with a hint of satisfaction that they hadn't drawn the same conclusion that she had.

Fletcher laughed. "I can see that nothing gets past you," he said, and she flushed a little with pride. "It's simple, though; wherever Draco is going, Blaise has a perfect right to be there, in a way that you or even I don't. You're right that he wouldn't find it easy to hide - but the thing is, he doesn't even have to try. His father really _did_ ask him to collect a few orders while he was here, so if someone asks him what he's doing, he has a perfect excuse. It's very useful to be able to tell the truth, or most of the truth, when you're asked an awkward question."

"Ah." Hermione thought for a short while, then asked, "So you think Malfoy's up to no good?"

"I'm not sure." Fletcher had a dark, slightly pained look on his face. "Blaise thinks he is, but those two are hardly best friends so who knows? If he is doing something he shouldn't be, I'm sure Blaise will make it a point of pride to figure out what it is. He's like that."

"He sounds a bit like you, Harry," Hermione said. Harry frowned at her, looking a little confused, so she explained, "How many times have _you_ refused to give up on a mystery?" Every single time he'd thought Professor Snape was involved in some wrongdoing, she added, silently.

Ron clapped a hand on Harry's shoulder and said, "She's right, mate, you don't give up easily. _Especially _not where Slytherins are concerned." He looked at Fletcher, saw the boy wasn't offended by the reference to his House, and went on, "And you know _you'd_ want to go off stalking Malfoy if you thought he was doing something he shouldn't be."

"I would not _stalk _Malfoy!" Harry retorted, hotly.

Ron and Hermione looked at each other and tried not to giggle. "Okay, so you wouldn't stalk him," she said, though she didn't believe that for a minute. "You'd probably like to know what Zabini finds out, though, wouldn't you?"

"The three of you are welcome to accompany me to the tea shop and wait for Blaise to report back," Fletcher put in.

"There's a _tea shop_ in Diagon Alley?" Ron sounded incredulous.

Fletcher laughed. "There are several. This is London, after all. Tourists expect to find tea shops here; they're very _British_, don't you know. Very popular with foreign wizards, especially Americans." He raised an eyebrow at Ron. "How many times have you been to Diagon Alley? I don't understand how you could possibly have missed them."

"He only sees Quidditch and sweet shops of his own accord," Hermione said, a little mischievously. "You have to point everything else out to him. The only place we've ever stopped for refreshments here is Fortescue's, so my guess is that he just never needed to notice the tea shops."

"I'm _right here_, you know," Ron grumbled.

"It's okay, I never noticed them either," Harry said, brightly. Then he turned to Fletcher. "If it's alright with you, we were going to visit Ron's brothers at their joke shop as soon as we've got our robes." An assistant was free; Harry nudged Ron, who nodded and went over to get fitted.

"Weasley's Wizarding Wheezes?" Fletcher asked, seemingly amused. "Well, if you don't mind me tagging along to their shop, I'll come with you and then we can go to the tea shop together. I mean, if you're interested in what Draco is up to, of course."

Harry made a show of thinking about it. "I suppose it might be useful to know." This didn't fool Hermione, and she doubted that it had fooled Fletcher, but if Harry wanted to pretend he didn't care about Draco Malfoy, that was fine by her. "Okay, so once we're both done with fittings, the joke shop then the tea shop, right?"

"Yes, there should be time for both; I think Blaise will probably take a while." Fletcher perked up suddenly. "Hey, look; I think Madam Malkin herself wants to fit your robes," he said to Harry, who groaned but still got up and went over to the shop owner. "Oh, and there's an assistant I can get to help me, too," he added, nodding politely at Hermione before excusing himself.

With all the boys so occupied, she moved back over to the rack of winter cloaks. She really did need one, and it would be better to get that sorted out now - especially if their little shopping trip was about to take a turn for the interesting.


	3. Light in the Darkness

**Author's Notes:** While I am following HBP fairly closely for at least the first part of this story, I'd just like to point out that some of the characters are not quite the same in this as they were in canon. So while Blaise is _similar_ to the Zabini we met in HBP, he's by no means identical.

* * *

**Chapter Three  
****Light in the Darkness**

Blaise left the shop less than a minute after Malfoy, but by the time he got out onto the street the other boy was almost out of sight. For once, he was glad to be so tall; a shorter person might not have seen far enough to pick out the clearly still raging Malfoy in the crowd. Of course, it helped that his target was so conspicuous, and apparently lacked the sense to pull a hood over his ridiculously blonde hair. Blaise smiled; really, Malfoy might as well have cast the brightest of _Lumos _spells.

He wasn't entirely sure _why_ he was following Malfoy in the first place; there was no guarantee that the menace to society was doing anything untoward at all. He might simply be doing his regular back-to-school shopping. Except – he was alone, and if he _wasn't_ up to something nefarious, why hadn't he brought his mother with him? No; surely he must be planning to conduct some sort of illicit business, something he didn't want anyone to see or know about. And if that was so, Blaise wanted to find out what it was. Hopefully it would be something really awful – and hopefully, Miles would believe him when he reported back. His friend had an aggravating blind spot when it came to Malfoy.

It had crossed Blaise's mind that Miles might only have suggested that he follow the waste of space because _he_ wanted to be left alone with Potter and his friends. Not that he knew _why_ Miles would want that – but then, he hadn't even known that Miles was acquainted with Potter in the first place. How could they even have met? Hell, Blaise was in the same school year as the so-called Chosen One, and he didn't think they'd spoken more than once or twice in the whole five years. As was only proper when it came to Gryffindors, of course. 'Excuse me', 'Pass the dried lacewings', 'No, page eighty-_four_, you dolt' – that was about as far as he ever went in conversation with them, usually.

But things were changing, or so it seemed. He'd almost managed to hold a conversation with Potter in Malkin's. Although, in hindsight, joking about him dying had probably deserved to go down like a lead-weighted broomstick. After all, it was said that the Dark Lord himself wanted Potter dead, so it was no surprise that neither Potter nor his friends had much of a sense of humour about that prospect. Blaise felt annoyed with himself, but not particularly guilty or inclined to apologise. Such a rash course of action was hardly necessary; they were still only Gryffindors, after all.

He trailed Malfoy at a distance that allowed for plausible deniability, keeping an eye on the white blonde head and dreaming up scenarios for where his quarry would go to ground. The reality was unlikely to be anywhere near as exciting as his imagination; there was no way that Malfoy was _actually_ going to meet the Dark Lord, not in broad daylight in Diagon Alley. And that was probably just as well, since Blaise wasn't exactly sure that he wanted to see the dangerously insane Dark wizard at such close quarters – not now, not ever. He _did_ want to prove that the younger Malfoy was just as much a Death Eater as his imprisoned father, but there had to be easier ways to do that.

His target reached the corner of Knockturn Alley, but didn't turn into the narrow, shadowy street – instead, Malfoy continued on to the Quidditch shop some fifty yards further down and went inside. Blaise cursed under his breath; _that_ wasn't interesting at all. Still, in following Malfoy he had ended up quite close to one of the shops that his stepfather had asked him to call at, so it wasn't all bad. He crossed the street and entered a rundown, slightly disreputable-looking apothecary that stood as close to Knockturn as it could do while still boasting a Diagon Alley address. It might not be an advised supplier for Hogwarts' students, but it sold things that many other shops could or would not. Such was its main appeal.

The shopkeeper knew Blaise by sight, and came over to serve him personally. If the man noticed his inattention – the result of keeping a careful eye out for Malfoy coming back up the street – he didn't remark upon it. And why would he? This wasn't a business for the indiscreet. "Ah, young Mr. Zabini, always a pleasure." Somehow, the apothecary managed to sound deferential without fawning. "Your father sent you, I assume?" While it was no secret that Blaise was not the elder Zabini's natural son, he _was_ the acknowledged heir to the family name and fortune, so it was only proper for the shopkeeper to recognise the legal relationship.

Blaise nodded. "Yeah, he's taken up experimental brewing again, and he gave me a list of ingredients. I was wondering how many of them you could get for me." He took a sheet of parchment from his pocket and smiled, wryly. "And, well – you can see how absorbed he is in his work; if he were any less so, he'd be here himself."

"Hm." The apothecary took the list and looked it over. After a minute or two, he said: "I have perhaps three-quarters of these items in my current stock. Most of the remainder I can source, apart from a couple of the rare venoms." He tapped a finger on the page, indicating which items he meant. "It's a shame; I used to have a contact on a snake farm in South Africa – but alas, no longer." A slight shudder accompanied the last three words, and a chill travelled down Blaise's spine as he realised what sort of fate had befallen the unfortunate unnamed wizard.

"And magical snake venoms are restricted substances."

"Exactly." The apothecary sighed. "Much as I dislike to make such recommendations, I have heard rumours that a number of individuals have sold on their stocks of illicit poisons to old Borgin; you might want to try your luck there."

"I think I shall; I'd intended to go there in any case." There was a package for him to collect in that rather infamous shop, an item bearing a very specific and interesting curse. "I'm impressed that you can provide so many of the ingredients so quickly, to be honest." Something outside the door caught his eye, and he turned away from the shopkeeper, saying, "If you can just make up a parcel of the items that you have on hand, I'll return to collect it in a short while. I have some other business I need to conduct." Blaise had just noticed Malfoy passing the shop and sidling into Knockturn Alley, and was anxious to follow before he lost the boy in the shadows there. The blonde had finally shown some sense and pulled his hood up over his hair, but he hadn't completely hidden his face – and Blaise would have recognised those angular features anywhere.

The apothecary asked no questions. He wasn't that sort of man. "Very good, sir," he murmured. "It should take me about fifteen minutes to prepare your order properly, so it should be done by the time you return." He gave a courteous bow and then turned towards his shelves, frowning over the list and casting an appraising eye over the vast quantities of stock.

Blaise didn't stay to watch. He left the shop as quickly as he could without being rude or drawing undue attention, and set off purposefully into Knockturn Alley. For a few panicked instants, he couldn't pick out Malfoy in the crowd at all, but then – to his relief – he caught sight of the other boy entering a building a little way down the street. Smiling to himself, he followed, realising as he drew closer that the shop was Borgin & Burke's, the very place he had been planning to go himself. As luck would have it, he had the perfect excuse to go in, and it was unlikely that Malfoy would ever suspect the real reason – but even so, he had to be careful if he wanted to learn anything at all.

He walked past the front of the shop and looked through the dingy window, noting that Malfoy was apparently having some sort of heated discussion with Borgin. The glass was too thick for him to hear what was going on; if he wanted to find out, he would have to go inside. Taking great care not to make any more noise than he could help, Blaise opened the door and slipped inside, moving quickly behind a shelf where he would be out of their sight. It was the perfect position, really; they couldn't see him, and didn't know he was there, but he could hear every word they said.

"You would do well to remember that there are people you really can't afford to disappoint." Malfoy sounded cold and contemptuous, but Blaise knew him better than that. There was some sort of dark undercurrent to his voice – uncertainty, perhaps, or possibly fear.

Borgin seemed decidedly unimpressed. "Fine talk for a criminal's son, Draco Malfoy." Blaise would have given a lot to see the look on the blonde boy's pointed face just then. There was a rustling sound, and then: "Mind, boy, your threats wouldn't impress me even if I _did_ believe them. Whatever associates you might have, they must know better than to tangle with me and Mr. Burke. There's many a family that's escaped trouble because we relieved them of... certain items, as you should well know. And it's a known fact that we keep records of everything we've ever bought or sold. For security reasons, you understand."

It surprised Blaise that Malfoy would even have to be told that; there was a very good reason, after all, why Borgin & Burke's operated with relative impunity and had never been raided by the Ministry. Far too many people within the government – some of them embarrassingly prominent – would be implicated if the shop's records were ever found. As far as anyone knew, the two dealers had never released any of the doubtless sensitive information they held on their clients, but the possibility was still there. They weren't blackmailers in the traditional sense, and they kept faith with those who kept faith with them – but there were few people who would be foolish enough to antagonise them.

"Is that so?" Malfoy sounded angry, very angry, though whether it was at the reminder of his father's terrible disgrace, or at the disrespectful way Borgin was treating him, Blaise couldn't tell. "You know nothing about me or my _associates_ if you think you can intimidate me, Borgin. Perhaps you've heard of Fenrir Greyback?" Blaise heard the abrupt intake of breath, and had to suppress a gasp himself lest he be discovered. Everyone in the room knew exactly what sort of threat Malfoy had just invoked.

A short, tense silence followed before Borgin sniffed, audibly contemptuous. "Aye, I've heard of him, kid. Enough to know that he's the sort of devil who wouldn't take orders from the likes of _you_." Blaise wondered why Borgin was being so hostile now, when usually he was obsequious in the extreme. Perhaps he had never liked Malfoy any better than anyone else did; perhaps he considered that, now Lucius was disgraced and in prison, there was no reason to be polite to his son any longer. Or it could be, just maybe, that whatever the younger Malfoy had asked him to do was so terrible that it had shocked old Borgin right out of his habitual sycophancy.

Malfoy was not the type to give up that easily, though. "You dare?" There was a faint thump, followed quickly by another strangled gasp from Borgin. "I have been set an important task, you blithering nitwit! You are obstructing me, and as you can well see, it isn't just _my_ will you're defying by this refusal." It frustrated Blaise that he couldn't see what was going on, and didn't know what Malfoy was showing the dealer to cause such a reaction. Although... he'd heard enough to know that there was something going on that justified his suspicions, and he knew that there was no way he could hide there forever. Better to step out now and try to catch a glimpse of whatever it was, while Malfoy was still blissfully ignorant of the fact that he'd been listening.

Moving carefully back towards the shop door, he opened it and then shut it again, this time with enough force to make a noise. Over by the counter, Borgin's head snapped up, and Malfoy snatched his left arm back and whirled around, shaking his robe sleeve down as he did so. When he saw Blaise, his eyes narrowed – but he could hardly claim that it had been a private conversation, not on a shop floor, so he didn't complain at all. That didn't mean that he wasn't visibly annoyed and ready to take out his frustrations on the closest convenient target. Though, really, Blaise actually _enjoyed_ it when Malfoy was in such a mood as this; there were few things more satisfying than getting under the blonde boy's skin.

To begin with, he utterly ignored Malfoy – a move sure to enrage the other boy and possibly cause some sort of explosion. "Good morning, Mr. Borgin. I believe you're keeping something for my father?"

"Stepfather," Malfoy put in, spite dripping from his voice.

Blaise looked at him as though he hadn't noticed anyone else was there, and raised an eyebrow in the same way that Miles did when someone was being very stupid. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

Malfoy sneered. "Everyone knows he's just your stepfather, _Zabini_. Why pretend?"

"Huh. Well, everyone knows you're a horse's arse, Malfoy, but they usually refrain from mentioning that in polite conversation." Blaise was very proud of his deadpan delivery; he was howling with laughter on the inside. "Perhaps you could return the favour."

Borgin snorted, but quailed slightly under Malfoy's glare. Whatever he'd been shown had scared him – or perhaps it had been the mention of Fenrir Greyback, whose reputation would terrify any sane person. Once the shopkeeper was suitably cowed, Malfoy tried to turn the same glare on Blaise, but he was thwarted by the difference in height; a lot of the menace was lost when he had to crane his neck back like that. He was trying to be intimidating, though, which would've been just adorable if it hadn't been _Malfoy._

"_What_ did you just say to me?" Malfoy's outrage was only barely restrained, and Blaise wondered if he was going to be hexed into the middle of next week. _Not that it wouldn't be worth it._

"I said you were a horse's arse." He gave Malfoy his best withering stare. "I didn't realise you were _deaf_ as well, though."

Malfoy let out a sharp hiss, sounding a little like a defective tea-kettle. "You – I could have you torn apart, Zabini. You might want to watch your words when you're talking to your betters, you know."

Blaise felt a faint thrill of fear pass through him; he was not immune to the terror generally inspired by Fenrir Greyback, or indeed any werewolf. He didn't intend to let Malfoy see any sign of his weakness, though. "My betters? _You?_ Don't make me laugh." Keeping his voice deliberately level, he added, "And I'd like to see you try to have me torn apart, Malfoy. What are you going to do, sic Crabbe and Goyle on me again?" He couldn't show that he was aware of the previous conversation – and besides, whether or not the threat of Greyback was empty when levelled at Borgin, it almost certainly would be so for Blaise. The Dark Lord would only order _him_ killed if it became apparent that he would never serve the madman, not just to indulge the whim of an affronted Malfoy.

"You only _wish_ that's all I could do to you." The arrogance and bravado was there, just as it always was, but still Blaise felt that there was something slightly off about Malfoy. As if his heart really wasn't in the threats today, for some reason. "I have much better ways to hurt you, now. You wouldn't laugh if you had any _idea_ what I'm capable of."

"Consider me suitably terrified," Blaise said, his voice carefully devoid of inflection. "Really, Malfoy, you ought to work on your temper, you know." And people thought that Slytherins were _good_ at hiding their emotions! Perhaps some were – Blaise had some skill at it – but Malfoy really couldn't manage it at all. His emotions played so obviously over his narrow face, and it was incredibly amusing to watch. If only Malfoy could learn a little self-control... but then, that wouldn't be anywhere near as entertaining. Thinking about it almost made Blaise laugh aloud, but he stopped himself just in time.

He turned back to Borgin. "I'm terribly sorry for the disturbance, Mr. Borgin. Did you manage to acquire the item my father requested?"

The shopkeeper nodded. "Yes, indeed, Mr. Zabini." He reached under the counter and drew out a brown paper package. "I'm sure you have more sense, but _do_ remember not to touch it. It might not prove fatal, but you'd have some explaining to do at St. Mungo's, that's for certain."

"I can only imagine," Blaise said, dryly. He picked up the wrapped item – and in truth, he had no idea what it actually _was_, only the nature of the curse it bore – and weighed it carefully in one hand. Then, with a wicked grin, he pushed it towards Malfoy, who recoiled. "If we're going to talk about tearing people apart, perhaps you'd care for a demonstration of the Curse of a Thousand Cuts? You can probably guess what _that _does." Behind him, Borgin cleared his throat pointedly. Blaise reluctantly backed away from Malfoy and looked around at the dealer. "Just a little joke among friends," he said, lightly, feeling as though he should have his fingers crossed behind his back. "How much do I owe you?"

Borgin's face was impassive. "Three hundred Galleons."

It was a lot of money – but then it was a rare curse, not to mention illegal, and doubtless very difficult to obtain. "Worth every Knut, I'm sure," Blaise said, reaching for his money pouch and pouring the gold coins out onto the counter.

Borgin watched him with a distinctly avaricious smile on his haggard face. "That is always our hope, Mr. Zabini," he murmured, scooping up the Galleons and stashing them away somewhere out of sight. Once the counter was clear again, he straightened up and said, "Always a pleasure to do business with your family. There are never any... _unwelcome _complications." Borgin didn't look at Malfoy while he was talking, and his expression didn't change, but they all knew what he was implying.

"That's just down to our good breeding." Blaise compounded the insult, knowing that it was a type of attack that Malfoy particularly hated, so proud was he of his supposedly unblemished ancestry. Sure enough, the glare he sent in Blaise's direction could've curdled milk and spoiled vintage claret. Blaise ignored it. "Anyway, I'm very grateful, Mr. Borgin. I'm sure my father will be pleased with the... item." Thinking about his stepfather's ingredient list, he added, "Oh, by the way, I don't suppose you have any magical snake venoms on hand? There are a few varieties that I haven't been able to acquire anywhere else, you see."

Borgin pulled an old book from his personal shelves behind the counter, and spent a moment or two perusing its dog-eared pages. Then he slammed it shut and looked up at Blaise. "If you're interested, I can sell you a half-dram bottle of ashwinder venom for twenty Galleons. That should be enough for about ten brews, if I remember rightly. A lot of coin, to be sure, but these things aren't easy to come by, I'm afraid."

Blaise shook his head, ruefully. "I know. Even our usual supplier is having problems tracing any. I suppose I'll have to take what I can get." He pulled out another handful of coins and counted them into the dealer's hand. The bottle he was given in return was almost comically tiny; it was just as well that snake venoms were used only very sparingly in most of the potions that called for their use. "Thank you; you've been most helpful. Until next time." Borgin made a polite bow, and Blaise inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement. Then he grinned at Malfoy, and was rewarded by a faint hint of fear in the other boy's eyes. "Good to see you again, Malfoy," he said, and was surprised by how sincere he managed to sound.

He made his way back over to the shop door and out into the street, his thoughts racing as he went. Had he overheard enough to condemn Malfoy after all? Certainly there was _something_ going on – he had said that he had an 'important task', and with the mention of Fenrir Greyback, it was likely to be something connected with the Dark Lord. He'd just have to hope that Miles would be willing to listen to reason this time. Suddenly realising that he was still clutching the package that contained the cursed item, Blaise hurriedly stowed it away in his bag – which, like so many things in the world, was far bigger on the inside than it looked.

"So. What was that _really _about?" Until Malfoy spoke, Blaise hadn't realised he was being followed.

Somehow he managed not to jump out of his skin, and turned calmly to face the other boy. "Really? Malfoy, I'm buying ingredients for my father. That's all. What did you _think_ it would be about?"

"I thought it was strange that you should show up exactly where I am. You were in Malkin's before. I saw you." Malfoy narrowed his eyes, but Blaise continued to look completely unconcerned. After a moment of trying and failing to draw any sign of guilt, Malfoy laughed unpleasantly. "Anyway, what are you doing with the Curse of a Thousand Cuts? There aren't exactly a lot of _legitimate_ reasons to need something like that."

"I suppose you could always report it," Blaise said, with a smirk. "My father might end up keeping _yours _company in prison, if you did. I mean, one of them is a hobby alchemist who studies slightly illegal curses for use in protective wards, and the other is a murderer who was arrested for trying to kill half a dozen teenagers while trespassing on Ministry property – but I'm sure they'd get on like an explosion in a Potions class."

Malfoy made the hissing tea-kettle sound again. "God, why do I even _bother_ to talk to you?"

"I don't know." Blaise scowled. "I wish you wouldn't." He took a deep breath and counted to ten in his head. "Look, I don't know what you want me to say, Malfoy. Father gets into these research moods, and when he does I end up having to buy some – well, some less than strictly legal things. If you want to make a big thing about it, go ahead, but remember you'd have to explain what _you_ were doing in there – and I bet it wasn't buying school supplies."

"That's none of your business," Malfoy said, coldly, trying and failing to stare Blaise down again.

"Oh, but what _I'm_ doing is yours?" Blaise gave Malfoy an incredulous look.

The hauteur in the other boy's expression would have won awards. "Of course. I keep telling you, Zabini – you need to learn your place." Malfoy shook his head. "This is a waste of time. I have things to do, and if you turn up where I am again then I'll _know _you're spying on me." Blaise just smiled and nodded; he'd heard enough to know there was something going on, and he didn't imagine that he'd get any more information than that, however much time he spent watching. Then Malfoy said something that surprised – and alarmed – him. "Tell your friend Fletcher I said hello."

"Miles?" Blaise was instantly on alert. "What do _you_ want with him?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes. "Nothing in particular; don't get worked up about it. He just knows how to behave properly, unlike _some_ pure-bloods I could mention."

"You like him?" Blaise wasn't sure why, exactly, but that possibility left him more than a little horrified.

"I find him a lot less aggravating than most other people." Malfoy seemed unaware of the effect his words were having. "But, as I said, I have things to do. I'll see you on the Hogwarts Express, I guess."

"If I can avoid seeing you again before then, yes," Blaise muttered. Malfoy smirked, then turned and disappeared back down Knockturn. Blaise watched him go, but after a moment he shook his head and walked back up towards the apothecary, smiling a little to himself. This time he'd definitely got the better of Malfoy, and that was always a sweet feeling. Even if the other boy _did_ suspect Blaise of trying to spy on him, there was no way that Malfoy could know exactly how much he'd overheard – and, more to the point, there was no doubt as to who'd won the insult war.

He collected the parcel of ingredients from the apothecary, and then – after a brief stop at a bookshop that was definitely _not_ on the list of recommended suppliers for Hogwarts students – he headed back up Diagon Alley to find Miles and the Gryffindors. Although there were at least three tea shops in the street, he knew exactly where his friend would be; only one of them was _the _tea shop. It went by the somewhat unpromising name of "The Nook", and the decor relied rather too heavily on chintz for Blaise's tastes, but there was always a good selection of teas, and the cakes were first-rate.

As he approached, his eyes fell on someone at one of the outside tables, and he frowned; he recognised her, nondescript as she was. He'd seen her before, very recently. It didn't bode well – but there wasn't anything he could do about it just then, so he went on into the shop. A waitress bustled over to seat him, but he shook his head. "I don't need a table. My friends are already here." He waved in the direction of the others, feeling a little strange that he'd just referred to Harry Potter as his _friend._ "I'll be over there, so if you could just bring me a pot of Darjeeling and a scone with raspberry jam? Thanks." She disappeared to sort out his order, and he went over to the table and said quietly, "I don't know if you know this, but you're being shadowed."

Granger looked up at him. "Oh, right – if it's a brown-haired woman, she's part of our Auror escort and we know she's there." Blaise nodded, and all three of the Gryffindors seemed to relax a little. "You noticed her outside Madam Malkin's, I suppose?"

"Yeah; I've got a good memory for faces." Blaise pulled up a chair and sat down, before leaning over and stealing a crisp from Miles' plate. "You'd better brace yourselves; I'm pretty sure that Malfoy is doing _something _on the Dark Lord's orders, though I can't say precisely what." He did briefly wonder if the lack of specifics would cause Miles to give Malfoy the benefit of the doubt, though he rather hoped not.

"I suppose it's only to be expected, really," Miles said, around a mouthful of sandwich. "Like father, like son." At this point, the waitress turned up and put the tea and scone in front of Blaise. Miles waved his empty cup at her. "Another pot of Earl Grey, if you please, miss." He favoured her with his usual warm smile and a slightly rakish raised eyebrow. The girl actually _giggled,_ and even wiggled her hips a little bit more as she sashayed away – which amused Blaise no end.

"I thought you'd given up flirting with girls?" He poured out his tea and turned a stern eye on his friend, who refused to look even remotely shamefaced.

Miles shrugged. "I never give up anything that amuses me." He flicked a piece of red onion at Blaise, who picked it up and ate it. "Anyway, don't change the subject. You were telling us about Malfoy."

"Oh, well, all I really know is that I overheard him trying to threaten Borgin into helping him with what he called an 'important task'. I don't know what it was; he didn't say while I was listening. He _did_ claim that he could send Fenrir Greyback in to persuade Borgin into complying, though." Miles' eyes widened, and Weasley swore – but Blaise noted that neither Potter nor Granger seemed to grasp the enormity of this, so he decided to enlighten them. "Greyback is a cruel werewolf; he _likes_ biting and infecting people, and he works with Dark wizards because they don't care what he does to their enemies. I wouldn't be surprised if he was an ally of the Dark Lord."

"He is." Miles, suddenly very sober and quiet, shifted uncomfortably and fiddled with his teaspoon.

"Yeah, that seems about right. Oh, and that reminds me – Malfoy claimed that Borgin wasn't just defying him, and showed him something I couldn't see. Something in his left hand... which is strange, because I didn't think he was left-handed."

"He isn't." Potter and Miles spoke at the same time – and all three Gryffindors turned to stare at Miles. They were probably wondering _why_ he would know that; Potter, after all, had the excuse of having played Seeker opposite Malfoy for years. Miles was only saved from having to answer any awkward questions by the arrival of his tea.

Once the waitress had gone again, Potter said, "The Dark Mark is branded on the left arm." He looked as satisfied as Blaise felt.

"That's exactly what I was thinking." Blaise looked over at Miles, curious as to whether he would try to defend the boy – but he said nothing. "I didn't think it was normal for the Dark Lord to mark underage wizards, though. And I certainly don't see why he'd make an exception for _Malfoy_. Or give him an important task, for that matter. The boy's a fool. The Dark Lord must be able to see that."

There was obvious suspicion in Weasley's eyes and voice as he asked, "Why do you call him that? The _Dark Lord_ is the name that Death Eaters use."

"Just habit." Blaise kept his voice level with some effort, and tried not to resent Weasley's interruption or its implications. "I find He Who Must Not Be Named too much of a mouthful for use in conversation, and calling him You Know Who makes me feel about six years old. I suppose I could try to use his actual name, but that really isn't done. Most people can't bring themselves to say it, and I wouldn't want to be the one to stand out like that. So, the Dark Lord it is. Using that name doesn't mean that I follow him, or even that I respect him."

"I think that he _should _be respected, you know – in the sense that he's a dangerous adversary, and it'd be stupid to underestimate him." Miles' comment drew surprised looks from the three Gryffindors, and Blaise wondered if it was the first time they'd heard a Slytherin refer to the Dark Lord as an enemy. "But in any case, whatever the task is, I'd suspect Draco is being set up to fail. Why else would He Who Must Not Be Named mark someone who is returning to Hogwarts, under the watchful eye of Albus Dumbledore? I mean, if he _has_ been marked at all."

"It _does_ seem indicated," Granger said, thoughtfully. "But by no means proven yet. We should definitely keep an eye on Malfoy, as much as we can."

"That won't be a problem." Miles treated Granger to the raised eyebrow, but she seemed to be resistant to whatever charm he had. "It's easy enough for me or Blaise to watch him without suspicion – I mean, Blaise is _always _glaring daggers at him."

"Oh, and you never look at him at all?" Blaise was feeling mischievous – or possibly spiteful. "By the way, he asked me to say hello to you for him. Is there anything going on that I should know about?"

Miles laughed. "You really don't need to worry about me, Blaise; there's nothing between Draco and me that I wouldn't tell my mother about."

"That's not very reassuring – you told her when you lost your virginity to that Muggle."

"I..." Miles buried his head in his hands, but his shoulders were shaking. Eventually he looked up, a stern look pasted unconvincingly across his features. "You are a terrible friend."

"You're the idiot who puts up with me."

"Sometimes I wonder why," Miles said, in an almost exasperated voice. "But seriously, I doubt Harry and his friends want to hear any of the sordid details of my personal life."

"It doesn't bother _me_, as long as your personal life doesn't involve Malfoy," Weasley said, decisively. "Because, come on – it's _Malfoy."_

Miles flushed slightly. "He's not as bad as you think, really."

"No, I've known him for years, and he really _is_ every bit as bad as I think he is." Potter seemed unsure whether to be amused or annoyed. "I mean, he tried to attack me on the train home because he was pissed off about me getting his dad arrested."

"Oh, dear, so _that's _how he ended up looking like that." Miles grinned, and Potter's eyes glinted as though he was trying very hard not to laugh. "He wasn't exactly forthcoming about it."

"He wouldn't be," Potter said, sounding rather pleased with himself. "It wasn't all that smart of him to attack me right in front of the compartment where a lot of the D – uh, my friends were sitting."

Miles collapsed into helpless giggles. "Oh, he is such an idiot. He's got no impulse control, either. Lord only knows how he got into Slytherin. The only person he knows how to manipulate is his own mother." Then he sighed and suddenly looked much more serious. "He really isn't that bad to people he doesn't hate beyond all reason, but I suppose none of you would find that particularly compelling as an argument in his favour." He shrugged helplessly. "Honestly, I don't think even I really find it that compelling – but all the same, I don't entirely dislike him."

"That's because he wants to be on your good side for some reason or other," Blaise pointed out. "Since he hates me – and he obviously hates Potter even more – none of the rest of us have ever seen this almost tolerable side of the little bastard."

Potter snorted. "I won't believe that he has one until I see it for myself."

"Ah, I see you're a sceptic," Miles said, lightly. "Anyway, back to the original point" – he waved his hand around in an expansive gesture that nearly upset a couple of teapots – "Blaise and I are Slytherins, and we can watch what Draco gets up to far more easily than you can, Harry. Not to mention that sneaky Slytherins are less likely to get caught in the act." Blaise wasn't sure that was true – he knew that Malfoy already had his suspicions – but he kept the thought to himself.

Instead, he asked: "Okay, then, who's for some cake?" And with that, the trolley was summoned, and the subject of Malfoy was closed, at least for the moment.


End file.
